A Journey of a Thousand Miles
by RobD
Summary: The beginning of what might one day become a collection of short stories dealing with my character, Tibs.
1. Default Chapter

_Even now, after so many years, he can see them clearly in his mind: his father and older brother, striding in from the field, the bright orange glow of the sun at their backs, spades and pitchforks tucked beneath their arms. He's watching them from the porch; beside him, his mother sits in a chair his father made, rocking the baby, his newest and littlest sister. Another sister is standing by his other side, watching with him. _

_He doesn't know how old he is in the memory; it doesn't matter. He is too small to see over the railing of the porch, so his sister is holds him up. _

_As the two figures come closer, he begins to see them more clearly. Father is tall, perhaps the tallest man in the world. His older brother is nearly the same size. Both of their faces are hidden in the deep shadows of hats with wide brims; there is mud up to their knees, and their clothes are ragged and dirty. _

_Father steps up onto the porch, dropping his armload of tools. He leans down and kisses mother, then beckons to him. He picks him up with one arm; the other is holding his sister. They are laughing and smiling, but he can't remember how any of it sounds. _

_Brother is on the porch now too, and if there is anyone he worships more than Father and Mother, it is Brother. He slides out of Father's arms and runs to his brother, laughing as Brother tousles his hair and lifts him up onto his shoulders. _

Mother begins to motion everyone inside, and the memory begins to fade; soon, all that is left is the swirl of cream-colored cloth, as first his sister and then his mother disappears into the darkness of the house; he is running in after them, and everyone is laughing and talking all at once….

Tibs was pulled out of the memory by the sharp pain of his knife slicing across the pad of his thumb. His eyes flickered, and focused back to what he was supposed to have been paying attention to: his arrow.

"Damn," he said, and stuck his thumb into his moth, sucking on the cut and searching his pouch for a spare bit of cloth to serve as a bandage. After a few minutes he withdrew a small scrap of cotton cloth, wrapped his finger quickly, and tied it off with a string of rawhide.

_That's what I get,_ he thought, yanking the cordage tight with his teeth. _That's what I get for not paying attention._

When the knot was tight, he picked up the discarded arrow shaft, and looked along its length. Good. He hadn't accidentally nicked a chunk out of it.

He picked his knife up from off the ground, and once more settled into the task of smoothing the shaft of any bumps, knots, or twigs.

Around him, the forest was as silent as one could expect it to be. Unseen birds either flitted through the underbrush like so many faeries, or sat in the treetops singing to one another. There was a low buzz of a nearby hive of bees; it was warm today, and wildflowers were blooming all over the forest.

Winter was on its way out in the forests of Falme; the snows had long since melted away, and the birds had returned from their journey North soon after. Everything was slowly turning green again and Tibs was looking forward to the bevy of fresh foods he'd be able to collect. There was also planting to look forward to; though hard work, gardening was one of his favorite chores.

For now, though, there were arrows to make, and meat to catch. He'd spent the morning searching for shafts that wouldn't require too much work- about twenty all together. The rest of the morning he'd devoted to scraping off any bark and smoothing out the bumps. Later he would have to cure and straighten the shafts by the fire; he planned to leave that particular chore for the next day.

He slid the shaft into his quiver, and stood up, and breathed the morning air deep into his lungs. It smelled fresh, like the whole world had been scrubbed clean and laid out to dry.

He gathered up his few belongings, slid his knife home into its sheath, and began making his way home. "Home" was a small hut, made of logs, sod, and a thatch roof, build into the root system of an enormous oak tree at least two hundred feet tall; he'd found it nearly a decade earlier, and had been living there ever since.

As he neared the grove of his tree, Tibs let out a short, shrill whistle. Far above him, a faint, screaming sound drifted down from above the forest canopy. Not long after, a large, dark shape swooped down from a nearby tree, fluttering its wings before landing on Tibs' outstretched arm. It was a falcon-a peregrine. Her eyes, two sharp, amber colored orbs, stared angrily from beneath twin black marks that swept to the back of her head and down to her breast like a pair of dark wings.

She chirped at Tibs, glaring fiercely, gave his ear a quick, gentle nip, and chirped again.

"All right, all right…be patient…"

Tibs dug into a pouch attached to his belt, produced a small portion of raw meat wrapped in a handful of leaves, and held it out to the falcon. She snapped at it, swallowing it whole before chirping at him again.

"That's enough for now, Aiden," he said, and slipped a small leather hood over the bird's head while attaching a pair of leather jesses to her legs.

"You can have more when we get home."

Aiden's chirps of protest died down as the hood slipped over her eyes, and Tibs continued his walk in silence, but as he made his way deeper into the forest, a sense of uneasiness formed in the pit of his stomach, and settled there like a lead weight.

The afternoon was slowly fading into evening by the time Tibs reached his grove; the sky had become tinged with the purple and darker blues of twilight, and the sun had long ago sunk below the tree line. Below that line, beneath the forest canopy, it was already dark.

Tibs entered the grove in complete silence, not even realizing he had begun walking in the same careful, stealthy tread he used when he hunted; nor did he notice that Aiden, who until then had been sitting calmly on his wrist, had begun to chirp and flutter her wings nervously, her head twitching and swiveling in every direction as she strained to see through the leather hood covering her eyes.

For the first time in a very long time, Tibs wasn't paying attention. As he made his way closer to his tree house, wrapped up in his own thoughts and memories, the silence of the forest became absolute. Some part of his mind was screaming at him that something was terribly, terribly wrong, but it was buried under thoughts of his brother and sisters, his parents, and the life he used to live. Finally, Aiden's talons digging into his arm broke Tibs out of his thoughts, and forced him to remove the hood and jesses. The bird took off like a shot.

Tibs looked at the spot where Aiden's talons had broken through his glove and skin, to where blood had begun to flow. And suddenly, he could focus again. The memories of his parents were gone; his mind was clear.

"Damn," he said, and began clutching his forearm to stem the blood until he could get home…and finally realized what had been bothering him.

He stood still, holding his breath, ears straining to pick up any sound from the surroundings. There was nothing. No birds, no small animal scurrying beneath the brush…nothing. There were few things that made animals disappear so completely. One of those things… Tibs' eyes narrowed as he heard the faint, barely audible but unmistakable sound of creaking leather.

One of those things…is people… 

Tibs inched his hand towards the hilt of his knife, at the same time trying to determine how many of them were out there. He was about to start moving forward again, when a harsh, shrill, and obviously fake birdcall broke the silence. He resisted the urge to look at the source of the sound, some distance behind him. He frowned. It was a signal; that much was clear. But as for what it meant….

He began walking forward, pretending to tend to his arm while at the same time listening intensely for more evidence of his pursuers. Soon, he heard even more creaking of leather, combined with soft footfalls and quiet grunts of men.

Many men.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tibs could see them moving, matching his stride, and came to the cold realization that they knew where he lived. There were sure to be more at his tree house; if he was to escape, he'd best do it now.

He tensed, and was just about to make a run for it when another unmistakable sound caught his attention: the low creak of wood being bent by a bowstring. He froze, as first another, then another bow was drawn, arrows no doubt pointing directly at him. He turned slowly, listening; they had him surrounded, and he could still hear more bows creaking.

"I know you're there," Tibs said suddenly, his voice echoing in the stillness. He waited, his hand gripping his knife, feet planted firmly.

Soon, the shadows of the brush and trees began separating into men, appearing like magic from the darkness. They wore dark, simple clothes, and all sported a hood, concealing their faces in the dim forest light. Tibs made a quick count- at least a dozen, all with arrows trained steadily on him. Not good.

He relaxed his grip on his knife.

There were no words exchanged, no signals; as one, the group of strangers came forward. Tibs felt his hands being tied roughly behind his back, then his knife being slid out of its sheath. He offered no resistance; there wasn't any point. All he could accomplish by fighting these men was dying- better to wait, and choose his moment.

His face was neutral; even when a sharp jab from behind prompted him forward, he was careful not to show any reaction.

Slowly, the men led him out of his forest, never saying a word to either Tibs or each other, not that he minded. Tibs didn't care why he had been abducted. He was curious, of course, but the actual reason wasn't important-what was important, was how he was going to escape.

As it was, his situation was bad. He was outnumbered, for one; for another, they knew where he lived. Even if Tibs did manage to escape, what good would it accomplish? They would simply come back and take him again, possibly with more men. Which begged the question of why they had taken him in the first place-why go to the trouble? He didn't know.

He hoped Aiden would be all right. He'd raised her since she hatched; she'd never been on her own before.

There was a short whistle from up ahead, and the procession came to a halt. A burlap sack was slung over Tibs' head before he was shoved forward again. He stumbled a few steps before he felt himself suddenly being hoisted off the ground, and then roughly deposited into the back of what he could only assume was some sort of cart, or wagon. There was a strong scent of old hay and manure, and something was squishing unpleasantly between Tibs' shoulders and the floor.

The cart started with a jerk, and Tibs and his captors were moving, rolling and bumping their way out of the forest.

Several hours later, the scent of the air changed. Even through the burlap, Tibs could smell salt on the wind, and he could hear sea birds squawking high above him. If it weren't for his current predicament, Tibs would've been thrilled; he'd never been to the ocean before.

The cart rolled to a stop, and the soft, steady sound of waves could be heard as they lapped up against a shore Tibs couldn't see. There was an increase in the activity around him; men were talking, some yelling, in a language Tibs didn't recognize. He could hear the sound of wooden planks being moved, shifted, and dropped, and the cart began moving again, this time at an incline.

It didn't move long, though-almost as soon as it has started, the cart stopped once again, and Tibs was forced out of it, and thrown to the ground…which, as it turned out, wasn't the ground at all; rather, it was a floor, made of thick wooden planks sealed with some foul-smelling substance Tibs couldn't identify.

He was yanked to his feet by the collar, whereupon Tibs discovered that this ground was not only wooden, but it _moved_ as well. He could feel the floor swaying beneath his feet, rocking first one way, then another. It was an unsettling feeling, one that nestled in the pit of Tibs' stomach and weighed as heavily as a stone, leaving him nauseous.

This was a boat, and Tibs was on its deck. As Tibs came to this realization, he was once again shoved forward. Having never been on a boat before, and feeling quite sick, Tibs immediately fell flat on his face. There was some shouting above him, more words he didn't understand, before he was once more pulled to his feet, and the sack over his head was mercifully removed.

The boat itself was rather impressive, as far as Tibs could tell; the deck was long, and wide, and at either end was a sort of raised section, with what appeared to be cabins beneath them. At what was clearly the front of the ship was a wheel of some sort, mounted on a small pillar. Three masts the size of tree trunks towered from the center of the ship, with huge billows of sail snapping and fluttering in the wind, blocking most of the sky.

Tibs was shoved again, in the direction of the ship's rear. The man leading him-huge, burly, his beard and mustache a tangled mess, and sweating profusely-opened a hatch in the deck. A ladder led down into darkness; a foul stench was wafting up from below.

The large man untied Tibs' hands, and for a moment, Tibs considered making a break for it…but the thought, brief as it was, was cut even shorter by a sharp jab to the small of his back.

Bushy Beard had a knife, apparently.

Having no alternative, Tibs began his descent, into the hold of the ship. It was dark beneath the deck, and however bad it smelled from above deck, from below the stench was doubly so. Dirty, old straw was strewn haphazardly across the floor, with no small amount of feces mixed in with it for good measure; on either wall was a long row of bunks, stacked three or four high, each one hardly bigger than a piece of shelving, and barely wide enough to sit (let alone sleep) on. The hold was also crammed full-not of goods, or even animals, as Tibs had expected from the smell. Rather, it was full of people-people, it seemed, that had little more choice in being here than Tibs himself. They were all filthy, many of them dressed in the barest of rags, and just as many (and more) sported the bare ribs and distended bellies of starving men.

A thick length of chain on either wall ran from one end of the hold to the other, connecting each slave by means of a thick iron shackle around the ankle. Bushy Beard was busy attaching one of these shackles to Tibs' left ankle; occasionally, he would look up at him with one watery eye, and Tibs would stare steadily back at him.

Bushy Beard, having finished his task, stood up, and with a laugh, shoved Tibs back against the throng of slaves behind him, and (had it not been for the bunk/benches) would have sent the whole lot of them crashing into the filthy straw. He laughed again, an unpleasant sound thick with phlegm, and waddled back out to the upper deck.

All around him, men were grabbing at Tibs' clothes, pulling off his vest and boots with emaciated hands, fingers hooked into thin, grasping claws. They all talked, loudly and all at once, some of them shouting, none of it in a language Tibs could understand.

He began to struggle, and was victorious almost at once; the other men were hardly in any condition to fight, especially when their opponent was young, still fed, and, for the first time since being captured, very, very angry.

His fist lashed out, and caught one man in the side of the head, sending him reeling backwards into two or three more; Tibs' booted foot slammed into another man's gut, knocking the wind out of him and sending him down to the floor.

A hand grabbed Tibs by the hair, and began yanking on it for all its owner was worth; Tibs grabbed the offending wrist with his free hand, and squeezed until he heard the popping of small, brittle bones. The man whose wrist Tibs had broken scream and stumbled as far away from Tibs as the chain allowed, and with him, the entire mob backed off as well. Someone threw his boot back at him, and his leather vest soon followed it; he pulled them both on slowly, eyes sliding from one man to the next.

None of them met his gaze.

There was, however, one other captive who had ignored Tibs throughout the entire incident, and when he first saw him, Tibs had to blink, and look twice.

Tibs had heard of gnomes, but he'd never seen one himself; according to what he remembered his father saying, gnomes were small, and as closely connected to the earth as any creature could be. So far, this description proved true-the gnome in question (and he was a gnome, no doubt) couldn't have been more than three and-a-half feet tall; he was slender, with chestnut colored skin that reminded Tibs very much of loose, sandy soil. His hair was coarse and dark, swept up and out of his face, and looked as if it was normally cut short, but was now in sore need of a trim. His beard was much the same, with what looked to have once been a stylish goatee now surrounded in stubble. His ears were long and pointed, with a wild tuft of hair sprouting from the ends. Tibs couldn't help but stare.

At length, the gnome seemed to finally notice him; he looked in Tibs' direction, and Tibs caught a flash of bright, intense green from his eyes-they seemed to glow in the dim light, like a cats.

"Wres-sel kail küllet, nef?"

Tibs swallowed, somewhat nervously.

"Lerasse-su Posala?" He looked at Tibs a moment.

"Quenya? Adûnaic?" When Tibs didn't answer, the gnome fell silent, thinking.

Finally, he said, "I don't suppose you speak Kerrisala?" He leaned back, with his hands behind his head, and laughed…laughter that was abruptly cut short when Tibs answered.

"Yes," he said, excited that someone on this ship spoke his language.

It was the Gnome's turn to stare, and stare he did-but not for long. After a moment, he grinned, and shook his head in amazement.

"Interesting," he said, then began mumbling in his own tongue.

" Kun Kerrisian…salaprise…" He looked up at Tibs, and his face split into a large, friendly grin.

"So, they picked you up to, eh? Sorry about the boys…" he waved a hand imperiously over the other men. "They can be a bit rude sometimes. Can't blame them, can you?" He stood up, shuffled forward the few steps his chains would allow, and extended his tiny hand.

"Name's Oloster, friend; Oloster Zantual Belven Ravaatra del'Arturos." He winked.

"Leastways, that's what I go by with humans…for short, y'see?"

Tibs broke into a smile, grasped the little man's hand, and shook it firmly.

"Tibs," he said. Oloster raised an eyebrow, and sighed.

"You humans. Such strange names."

It seemed that he was on the boat forever, and it might as well have been. The voyage took weeks, the ship pulling into port every now and then (the only indication of this being the sounds of loading and unloading cargo-not once was Tibs allowed out of the hold), and then shipping out to sea once more. Food was a valuable commodity among the slaves, closely followed by space. A lot of the time, he would have to contend (sometimes bitterly) with the others to secure a space off the floor, or for a hardened lump of what Tibs assumed was some sort of bread (whatever it was, it tasted about as good it looked…which, needless to say, was less than appetizing).

Sometimes, a slave or two would die-either from disease, or sometimes just from looking at one of the crew the wrong way. Either way, the dead body was unchained from the wall, hauled upstairs, and thrown overboard; and, for a while, there would an extra space to sleep-usually filled at the next port.

The only thing that made Tibs' voyage bearable was Oloster; the Gnome had set to the task of teaching Tibs the common tongue, and when he wasn't teaching, he told stories; stories of heroes and kings and far-off kingdoms that Tibs had never heard of, had never even imagined existing; he sang songs in a language that sounded like water in a stream, bubbling and flowing, and another that sounded like the sweetest of birdsong. He told Tibs about his family, a long list of friends and relatives that all lived together in what he called "The Burrow," several generations living alongside each other in a close-knit community. He told Tibs about Gnome science, and of machines and potions his people had invented for the betterment of all the races; he spoke of the great underground caverns and tunnels of his homeland, of their towering pillars of living rock; of glittering veins of gems and precious metals running through the stone like rivers of gold and silver; and of deep, dark, subterranean lakes that were as still and smooth as polished glass.

In return, Tibs told Oloster of his home, of the giant oak tree into which he'd built his house; of Aiden, and how he'd trained her from birth to hunt; of plants-roots, leaves, berries, flowers, and herbs and all the medicines he knew; of hunting, tracking, and trapping wild animals, and how to use every part of its body, so as to respect its spirit and not let anything go to waste.

He told Oloster of the rolling hills and fertile valleys near his forest, and of the deep places, beneath the trees, that no human had ever seen except for himself.

Oloster listened to it all, absorbing all the information Tibs had to give, every bit as enthralled with Tibs' descriptions as Tibs was with Oloster's stories.

It also came to light that Oloster was, in fact, a bard-a musician, a storyteller, and (as he put it) a "living, breathing repository of all that's worth living and dying for." He'd chartered a ship to take him across the sea, traveling from a small island in the west to the main continent of Asgoth (a name that was completely unknown to Tibs); unfortunately, as soon as he boarded the ship, he'd been clubbed in the back of the head, and had woken up chained below deck. He hadn't been on board long before the slavers had picked up Tibs-two weeks, maybe three, but not nearly as long as some of the others.

As it turned out, a storm had blown the ship off course; they'd landed on Tibs' island about thirty miles south of a small town, with a hole in the hull and a good third of the crew dead or missing (when Tibs asked how he'd known all this, Oloster smiled and, waggling his ears, simply said that he had his ways).

As far as either of them could guess, Tibs' abduction had really been incidental-the men that surrounded him had been the majority of the crew, searching for last-minute restocks of food and fresh water.

Sometimes, the sea would be rough. The boat would pitch and rock, back and forth, while, outside, thunder exploded in a deafening cacophony of unseen fury. It was these times that Tibs was especially glad for Oloster's company-having never been on a boat in his life, let alone a boat in a storm, he was often sick, and more than a little afraid. Oloster would speak comforting words, as he seemed to never be either frightened or ill; sometimes the words would be in common, sometimes in Oloster's native tongue, but they usually worked well enough to soothe Tibs' anxiety.

Finally, though, the voyage came to an end. The boat pulled into port, and the usual scrapings and thumps were heard from above-deck. However, this time the square door above the ladder opened, and light-bright, burning sunlight, the likes of which Tibs hadn't seen since his capture-cut through the gloom of the hold. Two of the crew clambered down the ladder, and after some effort, disconnected the chain from the ship.

Each man took control of a string of prisoners, and marched it up the ladder, and into the daylight.

When the light first his eyes, Tibs was blinded. He squinted, and tried to take stock of his surroundings. All around him, he could see the other prisoners doing the same; only Oloster didn't seem to have any trouble adjusting to the light.

Tibs regarded himself, and wasn't pleased-or surprised-at his condition. He had the look of someone who hadn't eaten well; his skin was pale, and he was pretty sure his eyes were sunken in, with deep, dark circles beneath them. His clothes with stiff with sweat and filth, and torn in places; he stank, badly, and he was pretty sure he'd picked up more than a few parasites.

As for the port itself, it was unlike anything Tibs had ever seen. The boat was docked at a long wooden pier, supported by stone pillars that disappeared beneath the bottle green of the water. Beyond the pier was a large cobbled square, a fountain gushing in the center, the entire affair ringed on three sides by buildings that rose four, some times five stories into the air, all made of stone, with roofs made of red clay tiles. The square was also filled with people-the likes of which Tibs had never seen. They came in all sizes-some where tall, slim, and graceful, while others were nearly as short as Oloster, but stocky, most sporting thick beards that hung nearly to their knees (these, he would learn, were Elves and Dwarves, respectively). Many had fair hair, an unusual trait in Tibs' home, but just as many had dark hair. Some were light-skinned, some were nearly the color of charcoal; a small few, he noticed, were even smaller than Oloster; these people (_Halflings_, Oloster told him) were rarely much taller than two or three feet tall, and nearly all of them went barefoot, their feet covered in thick, curly hair.

There was a variety of clothing, ranging from the modest, to the severe, to scandalous, to the downright odd. He saw one old man wearing what appeared to be a large, brightly feathered bird as a hat; one woman seemed to be wearing clothes made entirely of small, different colored patches; another wore hardly anything at all besides a brassier and loincloth which looked as it had been made of chain-mail.

If there was anything else to see, Tibs didn't get to see it-his hands were being roughly tied together, and the man at the head of his chain began yanking them all along.

They shuffled off the ship, down the gangplank, and into the street. Several more members of the crew joined the men at the head of the chains, and together, they led the prisoners through the crowded city streets. Several people stopped to watch the miserable procession as it passed, some making faces of disgust and disapproval (though as to whether the looks were for the slaves or the slavers, Tibs couldn't tell).

Eventually, they reached a small, enclosed square with a large wooden platform at one end. A small crowd of people had gathered there, almost exclusively humans. The chains were attached to nearby posts, and the sale began.

The man in charge was as thin and vicious as the whip he carried at his side; his nose was long and beaky, and his eyes had an unpleasant, squinting look. His teeth, when they flashed into view from behind cracked lips and black gums, were crooked and yellow. A thin mask of uneven stubble covered his chin, and oily black hair hung down to his shoulders.

He could make a speech, though, no doubt about it. Even though Tibs couldn't understand the man's words, he could see the effect they had on the crowd. The speech was bold, full of vigor, and the crowd looked to be more and more eager to buy whatever the man was selling-which, as the moment, happened to be a man of about five feet, old, and boney. The bidding was short, and as far as Tibs knew, fairly low.

As each slave was brought up for purchase, he was disconnected from the chain, shackled with a pair of sturdy iron manacles about the wrists, and led up to the platform. Tibs, Oloster, and a few others had been moved to the back of the line; they were by far the healthiest of the lot, having either been picked up late (and thus not as starved as the others) or brutal enough to take whatever food they wanted from the others).

Most went quietly; those that struggled, or resisted in any way, were beaten on the spot, some even to death. One man, who was already fragile with age and disease, died before he could even be brought up for auction, hacking and coughing up blood and small bits of raw, pink flesh.

By the time it was Tibs' turn, most of the crowd had dispersed; all that were left were the people with the money and the need for the best, healthiest slaves.

As the manacles were being fastened around his wrists, Tibs was finishing his scan of the square. He'd been taking stock of his situation during the auction; besides the man leading him, there were three of the slavers present. One was Beak-nose; behind him were two guards, each one with a small, stout club in his hand and a short sword at his hip. The man leading him, Bushy-Beard, had a dagger on his belt, as well as the key he used to lock and unlock the shackles.

The square had little less than a third of its original inhabitants. Most of the day had gone by, and the edges of the square were in shadow. The platform was raised a little less than three feet off the ground; about twenty feet to the left of it was a small line of fruit and vegetable stands, each one with a small square of canvas acting as a roof and shade.

The crowd was all men, most of them old enough to be Tibs' father; some of them were even slightly younger than himself. He doubted any of them were armed with more than a dagger, and even less that any of them would fight-each and every one of them had that certain look that comes from having lots of money, without having to work for any of it.

He had a plan.

Beak-nose introduced Tibs with a small flourish of his hand; Bushy Beard stopped at the edge of the platform, just beyond the top step, and shoved Tibs forward.

Tibs decided he'd been shoved enough.

He planted a hard kick into Bushy-beard's chest, send the fat man down the three steps and onto his back, his head cracking on the cobbles of the square. The crowd erupted in cries, some of them in fear, others clearly enjoying the show. The two guards rushed forward, swinging their clubs.

The nearest was the one on the right; short, bulky, with a nose that looked to have been broken several times, swung his club at Tibs' head. Tibs dodged to the left and down, kicked out again, and tripped the guard as he stumbled past. He managed to catch himself, landing on his palms; Tibs, already standing, kicked him in the face. There was a sharp snap of the guard's nose breaking, and he went rolling across the platform, clutching his face and blinded with blood.

The second guard was already upon Tibs; he raised his club above his head, and brought it down in a vicious arc. Tibs caught the guard's wrist in his hands, wrapping it in the short length of chain that connected them, then stepped to the right, pulling the guard's arm up and around until it was pressed firmly against his own back. Tibs pulled harder, until he heard the guard's shoulder pop as it dislocated. The guard shrieked in pain; Tibs released his wrist, grabbed the hilt of his short sword, and kicked him away, unsheathing the sword at the same moment.

The first guard suddenly tackled Tibs from the side, sending both of them to the floor. His sword was in his hand, already thrusting at Tibs' throat. Tibs (through luck more than anything) managed to bash the weapon aside with his own blade, and, sending his knee into the guard's groin, managed to shove the man off of him.

Tibs rolled to his feet, gripping his sword with both hands. There was a loud crack behind him, and a sudden, burning line of pain seared itself across his back. He whirled around, just in time for a second whiplash to his chest, sending him back down to his knees.

Across the platform, less than six or seven feet away, Beak-nose was smiling with a small, bent cigarette between his crooked teeth, and his whip in his hand. He made another casual flip of his wrist, and the whip lashed across Tibs' shoulder.

By now, the crowd had disappeared entirely, and the square was silent except for the whip. One lash glanced Tibs on the forehead, and a thin, steady stream of blood began flowing into his eyes. He grit his teeth, and stood up; the whip caught him in the chest again. He took a step forward, and then leapt into a run.

Beak-nose stopped smiling, and stumbled backwards as fast as he could, trying his best to lash Tibs as he went.

It wasn't good enough; before he'd reached the edge of the platform, Tibs was upon him, and with one good shove, send the sword through his throat. Blood sprayed out of the wound in a great, gushing arc, splattering Tibs and soaking into the wood of the platform. He kicked to body over the side, and turned around.

The other two guards lay prostrate, groaning, and weren't moving very much. Tibs was pretty sure Bushy-beard was dead. One look at the spreading pool of blood beneath his head confirmed it; Tibs bent down, and slipped the keys off the man's belt.

"That was pretty amazing," Oloster said. He and Tibs were in an alley, several blocks from the scene of Tibs' escape, and still moving to get as far away as possible. After being set loose, all of the slaves had taken off in different directions, all of them eager to be well away before the local watchmen showed up.

"Where'd you learn to do all that, anyway?" Oloster was peeking around a corner, checking to see if the coast was clear. He looked back over his shoulder, and grinned.

"I don't suppose you learned it gardening?"

Tibs shrugged, and tugged at his jacket. One of the first things he and Oloster had done was to get him new clothes-ones that weren't covered in blood. They had managed to find a white linen shirt, a pair of dark-green leggings, and even a pair of boots that were Tibs' size. They had also found a leather jacket, with padded elbows and shoulders that Oloster said made him look rather dashing and heroic; Tibs thought it was a little too short. He also didn't like the idea of stealing them, but as Oloster had pointed out, it was either _their_ clothes, or _his_ life.

"I just improvised. Did whatever I could think of."

"Well, it worked." Oloster's eyes flashed in the dim light. "Do you know where you're going from here?'

"I don't even know where 'here' _is_," Tibs sighed, and ran a hand through his hair.

"Is it clear?"

Oloster checked around the corner again, the waved Tibs on.

"Yeah, c'mon."

They took off, running down the deserted street. The sky was darkening; it was almost evening.

"So what about you," Tibs asked, "what do you plan to do now?"

"Well," said Oloster, puffing a bit with the effort to keep up with Tibs and his longer legs, "I think I'll go home for a bit, see the Burrow again." He grinned. "Nothing like slavery and the fear of death to make you homesick." He laughed, and Tibs smiled a little. They both kept running.

After a while, Tibs spotted some approaching lights, so they ducked down another alley. Luckily, it wasn't a dead end; they soon emerged on a new road, heading west.

They slowed, and finally stopped when they reached the western gate of the city. Tibs had feared getting out would be a problem, but Oloster had told him not to worry. If nothing else, he said, they could just pretend Tibs was Oloster's master, off on an important, secret business trip with his slave. When the arrived, however, the guard never even asked any questions- he simply opened the door, let them pass, and shut it behind them.

"You're welcome to come with me to the Burrow, if you like."

It was morning, and Tibs and Oloster were heading west, away from the sea. Tibs scratched his chin. After escaping the town, they had hiked into the nearby forest, and had slept until nearly noon the next day, enjoying for the first time in weeks their freedom. Tibs had caught two rabbits that night, which they devoured; for breakfast the next day, he'd discovered a small nest of pheasants.

Now though, they were on the move. The road they were traveling was wide and straight, hedged on either side by tall grass that swayed in a gentle wind.

"I don't know. I'd like to find some way back home, if I could."

"Well then," said Oloster, a cheerful smile on his face. "There's no better place! The Burrow has one of the best libraries there is. Anything you could want to know, you'll find it there."

"Couldn't I just charter a ship?"

Oloster was silent for a moment. Then, not looking at Tibs, he said, "Well…no. When the ship landed on your island, a couple of the crew went to a nearby town, to re-supply what they couldn't find. Turns out…" Oloster cleared his throat.

"Turns out, your island isn't even on the map. Completely uncharted." He made an uncomfortable sound in his throat.

"You're stuck."

"Wouldn't the captain have added it to his map?"

Oloster shook his head.

"Not a chance. Your island's smack in the middle of what's considered cursed waters. Not a man on that ship was as desperate to leave and forget ever coming as the captain."

Tibs blinked, and nodded, slowly coming to the realization that he was, indeed, stuck.

The two walked in silence for a while, before Oloster broke it.

"So…will you come?"

Tibs looked up at the sky. The night before, he'd seen that none of the stars were in patterns he recognized; even the wind smelled different than it did back home.

Behind them, the sun slowly climbed its way higher, and birds were beginning to come out of hiding, singing and rustling in the tall grass. The sky was growing lighter, and the air was getting warmer; soon it would be hot and bright, and Tibs would wish he'd never seen the jacket he was now wearing. He wondered whether or not accompanying the gnome was a good idea, if the trip would be worth the time it would take away from his finding a way home. He wondered what the Burrow, a place occupied by creatures Tibs had (until recently) only considered a fairy tale, would be like.

He wondered how Aiden was doing.

"Okay," he said.


	2. Chapter 2

"Come on, Cedon! Attack me!" Cedon Vaunderkom wiped the sweat out of his eyes, blinking, swiped a hand over his short blonde hair, and tried to focus on what his father had told him: knees bent, shield out front, sword held tightly.

"Come on," his brother, Kurik, yelled at him from across the circle of trampled earth that the soldiers used for training, his own sword and shield at the ready. "Come at me, already!"

Cedon grit his teeth, and charged forward, swinging his sword high-too high, as it turned out, and too wide; Kurik's own blade slapped Cedon's, and sent it spinning to the ground. A moment later, the tip of Kurik's sword was pointed at his throat; he had lost. Again.

"Good try, brother," Kurik said, sheathing his sword, and trying to give Cedon a reassuring smile. Cedon scowled.

"You're a terrible liar, you know.'

Kurik shrugged.

"Better than last time," he amended, and Cedon had to agree- after all, he couldn't have done much _worse_ than last time (seeing as he had sent his own sword spinning into a nearby bush, and had to spend the better part of ten minutes looking for it while Kurik laughed behind him). Cedon bent down to pick up his sword, and for what seemed to be the hundredth time, said to his brother,

"I don't think I'm cut out for this."

Kurik laughed, and began to say something, but the smile died on his face as his eyes caught something behind Cedon. Cedon didn't need to ask what had sobered his brother's humor-he'd seen it often enough.

"Hello, father," he said, and turned around, clasping his hands behind his back.

In front of him, his huge arms crossed across an equally huge chest, and his sever features a mask of intense disapproval, stood the Lord Durnik Vaunderkom, patriarch of the noble House Vaunderkom, royal knight, and (at the moment) extremely displeased with his oldest son. He was a big man; nearing seven feet tall, Lord Vaunderkom was heavily muscled, only the slightest signs of age appearing in the wisps of gray at his temples, and in the slight peppering of the dark mustache that covered his upper lip and trailed down either side, ending in twin points near his chin. Kurik was very nearly his double; Cedon, however, had taken after his mother-slender, almost delicate; pale, with light hair and light blue eyes. Unfortunately, he had received none of his father's battle prowess-all of that had gone to Kurik. At the moment, the Lord Vaunderkom was dressed in the formal wear of House Vaunderkom-an array of resplendent livery emblazoned with the Vaunderkom family crest-all of it a near-royal shade of purple. A long cape was clasped at his throat, and trailed down to his mid-calf.

"That was a pitiful display of swordsmanship, Cedon. I thought I told you to practice?" Cedon looked at his feet, unable to meet his father's eyes.

"Yes, sir," he mumbled, and began to dig the toe of his boot into the dirt. How many times had he been through this?

"If you've been practicing, then why do you continue to fail?"

"I don't know, sir."

"That's not good enough boy."

"Yes, sir." Cedon risked a glance upwards, only to find that his father's face was more displeased than ever. He looked back to the ground.

There was a long moment of silence, before his father breathed a heavy, disappointed sigh.

"Go on, the both of you, and get changed for dinner. We've guests tonight." He gave both boys a stiff push in the direction of the house, and the two took off running.

Kurik reached the house first, of course. He was always faster. Stronger, too. And, despite being nearly three years his junior, Kurik was nearly twice as large as Cedon was. It seldom bothered Cedon, though, as he was no doubt the smarter of the two brothers; as often as Kurik's size and fighting prowess had spared Cedon a beating at the hands of the other nobles' sons, so had Cedon's quick wits and shrewd thinking gotten the both of them out of trouble.

As they entered through the kitchens, Cedon and Kurik stopped by Cook to snatch a pastry; she shooed them away with her large wooden spoon, but she was smiling as she did, so they weren't at all worried.

The estate was a large one, though not so large as their nearest neighbors, the Moran household (whereas the Vaunderkoms were by no means in want of anything, the Morans were _phenomenally_ rich; the source of such wealth was often the topic of much gossip among the kitchen staff and servants, though Cedon (and the rest of the family) paid such base rumors little heed). It was fairly palatial; large enough for a formal dinning hall, at any rate, where the Lord and Lady Vaunderkom often hosted lavish parties; also, the manor contained many rooms on several floors, separated into two wings. Both the inside and the outside were tastefully decorated: fine furniture, wall panels of polished oak, attractive sculptures and paintings, and thick, intricately designed rugs filled the interior, while lush gardens, fountains, and even more impressive statuary dotted the grounds nearest the manor.

A stable, the servants' quarters, and all the craftsmen were kept behind the manor, as was the training field and barracks. The estate was completely self-sufficient; all it needed, it produced itself, from tools, weapons, and armor, to food and clothing.

Large as it was, Cedon often found himself feeling pressed in on all sides by people; he left Kurik at the kitchen, running through the main hall, up the massive, curling flight of stairs, and down the hallway leading to his room.

Inside, he changed quickly, sparing his dress clothes only the briefest look of distaste-he hated them, the color in particular. He'd never liked purple; that he was forced to wear a suit of clothes that was _entirely_ of such a color (and was uncomfortable to boot) never sat well with him.

In any case, he pulled on the garments, then rushed out of his room to the one place he ever felt any sense of contentment: the library.

The Vaunderkom library was a modest one, by noble standards, but it contained far more books than any commoner would ever read in his lifetime. Far more than any commoner was likely to _see_, for that matter. And Cedon loved it. For one thing, hardly anyone was ever there. For another, he loved to read; he devoured books. They were his breakfast, lunch, and dinner-more than any dish, they sustained him.

As he pushed open the two mahogany doors leading to the library, he noticed that he would have company. Seated at the far end of the library, reading by a large window, was the demure figure of his older sister, Elspeth. Like Cedon, she shared many of their mother's features: the pale skin, the slight frame; like her mother, her face was heart shaped and delicate. Unlike Cedon, though, she had inherited the dark hair and eyes of their father. However, her eyes weren't cloudy, as Kurik's were; rather, they seemed extraordinarily deep, a passageway that revealed her exceptional intelligence and wisdom; all of it combined to lend her a nearly ethereal quality, one that tended to make many of the servants shy away from her in the corridors.

This was hardly surprising, though, as (like her mother, and very nearly the whole of her mother's side of the family) Elspeth was a wizard-and not a bad one, at that.

Cedon looked about to see if Elspeth's mentor, their aunt Valery Akamir, was about-more than any other subject he read about, none fascinated Cedon so much as magic did. He would read about it, its theories, and its principles, for hours on end; he tried to sit in on Elspeth's lessons whenever he could, listening, hoping to glean some sort of information from Valery's teachings.

Thus, he was disappointed to find that his aunt was nowhere in sight; she was no doubt making her own preparations for dinner that night. He made a short, "oh-well" sort of sigh, and entered the library.

"Hello, Elspeth," he said, walking over to his sister and peering over her shoulder. "What're you studying today?"

Elspeth looked up from her book, and smiled.

"Hello, Cedon," she said, and turned to face him. She gestured to her book. "Just going over some of Mordinkaiden's theories of evocation. Is your practice over already?"

Cedon made a face, and she laughed.

"That bad, was it?"

"Worse." He shook his head. "Believe me, if I thought I could quit, I would have done it years ago."

"What would you do instead?" Elspeth had tucked her book into a pocket somewhere on her dress; her chin was resting on her fist, and it seemed to Cedon that she was studying him with her dark eyes.

"Well," Cedon said, scratching his chin, avoiding the penetrating look she was giving him.

"I suppose I'd like to study…with you, under Aunt Valery. Or anyone else who'd teach me, for that matter…maybe become a wizard…" He trailed off, and then shook his head.

Elspeth was looking at him very intently now, and it made Cedon uncomfortable. He began to squirm.

"You know," she said slowly, "you could do very well. As a wizard, I mean."

"Do you think so?" Cedon, despite himself, felt a small surge of excitement-he'd always thought about becoming a wizard, but never believed he'd had the talent…but now, to hear his sister, who was almost a full wizard herself, say that he'd do well…

"Absolutely," she said.

"What about Father? He'd never allow it."

"Oh, hang Father!" Elspeth said, startling him. "You have talent; I can see it. You and I both know you're miserable trying to be a knight, and he should be able to see it too!" Elspeth was standing now, her pale cheeks flushed. "I know Mother and Aunt Valery would be thrilled to have another student. Just tell him that you want to study with them, and I'm sure he'll give in eventually." She crossed her arms. "And if not, I'll _make_ him."

Seeing her, small as she was, the thought of her _making_ their giant of a father do anything was enough to make Cedon laugh. He was about to say as much, when the dinner bell rang from down the hall.

Elspeth forgot her short-lived spark of anger, and her mouth dropped open in a small "o" of surprise.

"I have to change!" she said, and rushed out of the room, leaving Cedon alone.

Dinner that night lacked nothing in its extravagance; guest and host alike were treated to the most exquisite of musical entertainment, performed by some of the most talented and renowned bards from the kingdom had to offer. They were fed with the most sumptuous of dishes, served steaming hot from the kitchens on platters of silver and cooked to perfection, the tables groaning under the weight. Turkey, goose and other fowl, even a magnificent peacock adorned with gold feathers, sat, roasted and golden, among the suckling pig, the roasted lamb; cheeses and fruit, both exotic and common, lay cheek-and-jowl with the richest of desserts-cakes, pies, pastries, and (grandest of all) a large, elaborate model of the Vaunderkom estate, made entirely of sweet, glistening marzipan and set like a jewel at the center of the main table. Servants scurried back and forth, carrying trays, carrying drinks, carrying fresh platters of whatever needed replacing; soldiers and farmers, the craftsman and the merchants, the people who ran most of the day-to-day operations of the estate, filled the ranks of the lower tables, while it was the nobles who occupied the higher; all the same, everyone in attendance ate well and enjoyed the fine hospitality of their gracious hosts, the Lord and Lady Vaunderkom.

Amongst the celebrating, and doing his best to ignore the surrounding din of the minstrels and guests, Cedon took a quiet bite of his pastry. He was dressed in his best, an outfit very much like the one his father had worn earlier. Like his father's clothes, these were all purple.

Cedon hated purple.

Across from him, and a bit further down the table, his sister (dressed in several layers of pale lavender silk) was chatting amicably with the son of the Lord Moran, a tall, dark youth named Aldric (Cedon and Aldric had learned under the tutelage of the same teachers during their childhood, but like Kurik, Aldric's physical abilities far exceeded Cedon's, a fact the boy had reminded Cedon of as often as he could get away with). Why Elspeth was talking to him, Cedon had no idea-he supposed she found him attractive.

But, despite his dislike of the young Moran, Aldric was not the source of Cedon's malcontent. Cedon had been thinking about what Elspeth had said earlier, in the library, turning the idea over and over again in his mind. Why _not_ simply tell his father his wishes? That he had no desire (and, frankly, no _talent_) to become a knight?

Why not, indeed?

But every time he thought about the actual _telling_ of his father, Cedon's stomach twisted itself into a knot; suddenly, the idea of doing _anything_ other than what his father had long ago decided was the best course of action for his son seemed ludicrous, and Cook's pastry seemed not to taste as good as it had a moment ago.

A single, clear note rang throughout the dining hall, and the guests looked to their hosts at the highest table. Lord Vaunderkom was standing, a goblet of gold and silver clenched delicately in his large fist. He cleared his throat, and the hall grew silent.

"My friends," he said, deep voice resonating to all corners of the hall, "dear guests, and faithful servants; I thank you for joining my wife and I for this most wondrous feast."

The guests all burst into applause (though Aldric, Cedon noted absently, kept his hands in his lap). The lord waited a few moments for the clapping to die out, then continued.

"It has always been my privilege, and indeed my pleasure, to be in the service of our lord and king, his Majesty the great Lord Vaughn!"

Again, there was thunderous applause, enough to make the dishes rattle on the table.

"And tonight," Lord Vaunderkom continued, "my joy has doubled, for not only has my youngest son, Kurik, been accepted as a royal knight to his Majesty's guard…" Here the applause was so loud and so long that the lord was forced to wait several moments for silence to return, "…but so, too, has my oldest son, Cedon received such honor! Hail, King Vaughn!" Again, there was a terrific bout of applause, louder and more exuberant than any of its predecessors, but Cedon heard none of it. He saw Elspeth's eyes widen from across the table; somewhere in the back of his mind, he noticed that Kurik was speaking to the crowd, thanking them for their show of support. He looked down at his plate, pale, his stomach doing somersaults. His pastry was lying on the floor, half-eaten and now forgotten.

He heard someone say his name, and all of a sudden he was being pulled to his feet, a strong hand slapping his on the back. He looked over his shoulder to see Kurik smiling at him. He was gesturing to the crowd, urging Cedon to say something.

Cedon's mouth gaped open, dry as dust, and a large lump formed in the back of his throat. The hall grew quiet, expecting the oldest of the Lord Vaunderkom's progeny to speak, to accept the great honor that had been bestowed upon him.

He licked his top lip, and his eyes slid first to Kurik, then to Elspeth, then finally to his father. All eyes were on him.

He opened his mouth one final time, and, before he even realized he was going to say anything, whispered one word.

"No," he said.

The hall grew dead quiet. Cedon, still watching his father, saw the old lord's fist clench around his goblet, the precious metals begin to bend and buckle in his grip.

Suddenly, Cedon was talking, louder and louder, horrified at what he was saying, but unable to stop himself. He said he refused the position of knighthood, that he never wanted anything to do with being a knight, that he wanted to study with Elspeth and his aunt; in short, he told his father (in front of the entire assembly of local lords) that he rejected everything the Lord Vaunderkom had ever told him he should be.

When the flood of words ended, the hall was tense and quiet, as if everyone in attendance were holding his breath. The Lord stood rigidly at the head of the hall, the goblet crushed in his hand, wine spilling over his gloved hand. Beneath his mustache and dark hair, his face blossomed with a deep shade of red, and his teeth were clenched nearly as tight as his fists. Beside the Lord, Cedon's mother gently tugged at his arm, urging him to calm down,

But the Lord would not be calmed. He threw the useless cup to the ground, gathering his dark purple cloak in his fist.

"How dare you!" he shouted, his voice deep and terrible, his shoulders shaking with explosive rage. Cedon recoiled back from his father's anger, but was instantly shoved forward again be someone behind him.

"How dare you bring such dishonor, such disgrace, into my home? How dare you shame your mother and I in front of not only our household, but those of our guests as well? To refuse the honor of serving your king and country as any true-blooded man should, and instead pine for the tricks of women and cowards!" Durnik Vaunderkom, when angry, was a sight to behold; his large frame shuddered with barely suppressed violence; a small muscle in his eye twitched over and over, while veins in his neck and forehead throbbed magnificently with the man's hot-blooded wrath. His hands were clenched into giant fists, his knuckles standing out even from beneath the leather of his gloves. His teeth ground against each other, his nostrils flared up like a horses; his eyes flashed and glittered with his ire, and Cedon was afraid.

"Get out," his father finally screamed, pointing wildly towards the exit. "Get out, and never come back through these doors!"

Cedon's mother let out a wail, and fell to her knees, grasping onto the lord Vaunderkom's leg, begging and pleading for him to reconsider. The Lord, however, had made up his mind.

"From now on," he said, still yelling, "you are no son of mine!" With that, he turned on his heel and strode imperiously out of the hall, deaf to his wife's entreaties.

Cedon found himself alone; the guests had all backed away from him during his father's tirade, leaving a small island of clear space on which he stood.

Across the table, Elspeth glanced back and forth between Cedon and the door their parents had gone through, a fretful grimace painted over her features. After several seconds of indecision, she finally ran through the door.

Cedon turned slowly towards another doorway. Kurik was seated at the table, his face in his hands, clearly embarrassed; Aldric was smirking a few feet beyond him. Everyone was staring at him.

Finally, Cedon could stand it no more; he took off at a run, out of the hall, through the kitchens, and up the stairs to his room. There, he threw the bolt on his door, locking it, and began to pack.

Dark had just fallen when Cedon's father made his ill-fated announcement; by the time Cedon slipped out of his room carrying a pack half-full of clothes and personal knick-knacks, it was well after midnight.

He padded his way down the kitchen, stopping only to fill the remainder of his pack with leftovers from the night's meal-bread, cheese, meat, and as many pastries as he could manage. He took two water skins, one of which he filled with wine and placed inside his pack; the other, he filled with water, and tied to his belt.

His clothes he had changed; he wore his plainest, most simple tunic and pants (still far more than any peasant could afford), and belted with an unadorned leather belt. Many of the clothes in his pack were a great deal fancier than anything he'd seen common folk wear-if nothing else, he'd hoped to sell these-but at least none of it was purple.

He was considering whether or not he should shove a few extra of Cook's pastries into his pockets when a hand, large and rough, clasped him on the shoulder.

Cedon whirled around, yelping with fright, only to see his brother Kurik, standing in the gloom, dressed only in his night-shirt and a thin pair of breeches.

"Cedon?" he said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and shaking his shaggy head. "Where are you going?"

Cedon glanced nervously about the room, anxious as to whether anyone might have heard him.

"I'm leaving," he said. "I don't know where."

Kurik, in the middle of a yawn, shut his mouth.

'You're serious? You're just going to go?"

Cedon licked his upper lip, glanced around the kitchen one more time, and nodded. Kurik sighed, and shook his head.

"I guess there's nothing I can say to stop you…"

"There isn't," Cedon said. "I'm sorry."

Kurik nodded, then reached behind his back.

"I thought so," he said. "Here." He tossed something to Cedon, who caught it with both hands. It was a dirk, its hand carved from the dark wood that surrounded the Vaunderkom estate.

"It isn't much," Kurik said, scratching the top of his head, "but it's something, right?"

Cedon felt a sudden rush of affection for his younger brother, and extended a hand towards him.

"I'll be back, someday," he said. "I'll be back, and I'll show father that there's as much honor in magic as there is in the sword."

Kurik grasped his hand, and then pulled his brother into a bear hug. "I know you will, brother," he said, releasing him and patting him on the back.

"Now go on, then. You're running out of moonlight."

Cedon smiled, grasped hands with his brother once more, and slipped out into the darkness.


End file.
